Stalking the Angel Read Free Page B

Maybe she wasn’t. There was sort of a cockeyed grin on her face that made me wonder if she was high.
    “Would you like to get back to your book?”
    She didn’t nod or blink or run screaming from the room. She just stared.
    I went back through the dining room and the entry and out to my Corvette and cranked it up and eased down the drive. When I got to the street, Hatcher grinned over from his T-bird, and said, “How’d you like it?”
    “Up yours,” I said.
    He laughed and I drove away.

3

    Three years ago I’d done some work for a man named Berke Feldstein who owns a very nice art gallery in Venice on the beach below Santa Monica. It’s one of those converted industrial spaces where they slap on a coat of stark white paint to maintain the industrial look and all the art is white boxes with colored paper inside. For Christmas that year, Berke had given me a large mug with the words MONSTER FIGHTER emblazoned on its side. I like it a lot.
    I dropped down out of Holmby Hills into Westwood, parked at a falafel stand, and used their pay phone to call Berke’s gallery. A woman’s voice answered, “ArtWerks Gallery.”
    I said, “This is Michael Delacroix’s representative calling. Is Mr. Feldman receiving?” A black kid in a UCLA tee shirt was slumped at one of the picnic tables they have out there, reading a sociology text.
    Her voice came back hesitant. “You mean Mr. Feldstein?”
    I gave her imperious. “Is
that
his name?”
    She asked me to hold. There were the sounds of something or someone moving around in the background, and then Berke Feldstein said, “Who is this, please?”
    “The King of Rock ’n’ Roll.”
    A dry, sardonic laugh. Berke Feldstein does sardonic better than anyone else I know. “Don’t tell me. You’re trying to decide between the Monet and the Degas and you need my advice.”
    I said, “Something very rare from eighteenth-century Japan has been stolen. Who might have some ideas about that?” The black kid closed the book and looked at me.
    Berke Feldstein put me on hold. After a minute, he was on the line again. His voice was flat and serious. “I won’t be connected with this?”
    “Berke.” I gave him miffed.
    He said, “There’s a Gallery on Cañon Drive in Beverly Hills. The Sun Tree Gallery. It’s owned by a guy named Malcolm Denning. I can’t
swear
by this, but I’ve heard that Denning’s occasionally a conduit for less than honest transactions.”
    “ ‘Less than honest.’ I like that. Do we mean ‘criminal’?” The black kid got up and walked away.
    “Don’t be smug,” Berke said.
    “How come you hear about these less than honest transactions, Berke? You got something going on the side?”
    He hung up.
    There were several ways to locate the Sun Tree Gallery. I could call one of the contacts I maintain inthe police department and have them search through their secret files. I could drive about aimlessly, stopping at every gallery I passed until I found someone who knew the location, then force the information from him. Or I could look in the Yellow Pages. I looked in the Yellow Pages.
    The Sun Tree Gallery of Beverly Hills rested atop a jewelry store two blocks over from Rodeo Drive amidst some of the world’s most exclusive shopping. There were plenty of boutiques with Arabic or Italian names, and small plaques that said BY APPOINTMENT ONLY . The shoppers were rich, the cars were German, and the doormen were mostly young and handsome and looking to land a lead in an action-adventure series. You could smell the crime in the air.
    I passed the gallery twice without finding a parking spot, continued north up Cañon above Santa Monica Boulevard to the residential part of the Beverly Hills flats, parked there, and walked back. A heavy glass door was next to the jewelry store with a small, tasteful brass sign that said SUN TREE GALLERY, HOURS 10:00 A.M. UNTIL 5:00 P.M., TUESDAY THROUGH SATURDAY; DARK, SUNDAY AND MONDAY . I went through the door and